


Bird Song

by purplesocrates



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fic Giveaway, M/M, Post TWOTL, fluffy murder husbands, will feeds hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 05:28:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10633185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplesocrates/pseuds/purplesocrates
Summary: This was written as the giveaway for reaching 200 followers on my tumblr.  The winner was @diea-kierlyn who gave me the prompt Bird Song.Set post TWOTL in Cuba.  Hannibal is still recovering and is prone to bouts of melancholy which Will chases away with poetry...





	

Hannibal wakes to an empty bed, sun streaming in from the open window and warming his exposed skin, the thin curtains breathing in and out in the warm breeze. He keeps his eyes closed and breathes in the warm scent of flowers on the air, sweet and sickly, he can hear the birds starting to twitter in the garden communicating in their own song. Slowly but elegantly he stretches his body, arching his back and pointing his toes, feeling the muscles and bones clicking, extending and lengthening. He sighs and opens his eyes. 

Taking in the sight of the empty side of the bed, mussed sheets and a pillow with an indentation and a slight sweat stain. The sheets feel cool beside him as he places his hand on the empty space, he wonders how long Will has been gone. These days he feels the need to sleep longer than before, his body is changed, he refuses the word weakened it just needs more rest. This does not bother him as much as perhaps it should, he is calm and enjoys the strength he feels he gains with every extra hour of slumber. 

Looking out of the window he sees a slither of the garden, as the curtains move more is briefly revealed and then taken away. The smell of the flowers is verging on pungent, his finely tuned sense of smell feels slightly assaulted by it. Turning onto his side he moves his head and places it on Will’s pillow breathing in what is left of his scent, its musty but not unappealing and has that slight rich element to it that is intrinsically Will. Closing his eyes again he summons up the memory of the warmth of Will’s body next to his skin, the shape of it curled up against his, how they fit together. 

He can smell coffee wafting in through the bedroom door which has been left ajar, an invitation for him to rise. Hannibal smiles and opens his eyes again, stretching one more time he eventually slowly gets out of bed. His limbs take slightly longer to get moving these days, they are stiff and he finds he aches. Pulling on underwear and thin linen trousers and a white shirt he runs a hand through his hair and makes his way barefoot out into the kitchen, following the smell of Will’s coffee. 

Will is not in the kitchen but a mug has been left for Hannibal by the pot of coffee. He pours the liquid, slight steam mingling with the air, brings the mug to his lips and the coffee is the perfect temperature and perfect bitterness. Will appears a few moments later his presence announced to Hannibal by his footsteps and his scent, he closes his eyes relishing the moment before Will appears in the kitchen.

“Good morning.” Will comes up behind him and briefly kisses him on the cheek, “you found the coffee.”

Hannibal likes to relish the easy joy and simple pleasure of moments like this, Will is busying himself putting the fruit and vegetables away he had bought from the local market. A picture of domesticity that he never thought they would achieve, the easy manner of Will as he casually strolls around the kitchen belies his strength and the possibility that lives in every atom of him, the potential that Hannibal sometimes thinks he can literally smell in the cells of Will’s skin.

At the same time as he is overcome with pleasure and joy he is also filled with a sense of the temporary. He never used to fear anything, death made life worth living in his view. Death freed him from worry about the future and allowed him to live perfectly in the moment. He thinks that in moments like this if he were to die he would die happy. Now that he has this, a perfect idyll of a life he is occasionally gripped by the fierce need to hold on to it, to never let this go. It’s a strange feeling and it makes him uneasy. Then he is reminded that he has survived his death, he has lived through his death and Will’s and has come out the other side in this heavenly existence.

Will senses when Hannibal is like this and these thoughts have crept over his mind and he will quote Keats at him while kissing his neck, willing the words deeper than skin. Will is looking at him at this exact moment and smiling, he is leaning against the island in the kitchen opposite him looking at him smiling. Hannibal is looking back and finds he is also smiling, broad and genuine. “Do you need the nightingale again?” Will asks, his voice like a kiss on Hannibal’s skin, he shivers.

“No, I’m fine just a brief moment of melancholy relieved by your presence.” 

Will doesn’t move straight away he lets those words hang between them for a moment and then closes the distance between them and places his hands on Hannibal’s hips and gently kisses him. The kiss is brief but life affirming, Will breaks away and continues his pottering. Hannibal eventually goes to sit in the garden in the shade and watch the birds eat from the feeders Will has constructed and keeps topped up.

Hannibal watches the various brightly coloured birds as they flit around each other, his favourite is the national bird of Cuba with its bright red stomach. Will rolled his eyes when he had expressed this opinion and Hannibal had laughed. He sips his coffee and stretches his legs again, he wonders what time is it and realises he doesn’t really care. It’s hot but not stifling so it must be late morning. He leans his head back in and closes his eyes again listening to all the sounds in their garden, bird song, wings fluttering and the slight rustle of the breeze through the trees. 

Eventually Will joins him, silently sitting next to him having placed a tray with fresh fruit on the small table between them. Hannibal opens his eyes and turns his head to look at Will who is looking at the birds now. Hannibal silently leans forward and picks up a piece of fruit from the bowl and puts into his mouth relishing its flavour.

“Your favourite is back,” Will says simply still looking at the birds on the feeder.

Hannibal smiles, “he just can’t keep away.”

The silence settles easily between them they don’t need to talk much these days, all words between them flutter unsaid, they seem to speak in a physical language of gestures and sighs. They can sense each other’s energy now and is flows easily between them. They have found a peace that does not need to be spoken.

Will’s turns his head to meet Hannibal’s gaze and rolls his eyes at him, Hannibal smiles back and takes in the sight of Will sat so easily next to him in this garden of theirs and can almost feel his heart begin to burst. 

Will slowly and gently stands he makes his way to Hannibal’s chair and lowers himself onto Hannibal’s lap with ease. Hannibal’s hands goes to Will’s hair and his fingers brush through it. Will gently leans forward, cupping Hannibal’s face in his hands he kisses his cheek and the makes his way to his lips. The kiss is slow and languid, Will teases Hannibal’s mouth open and gently sweeps his tongue over Hannibal’s. Moving his hands to Will’s lower back Hannibal pulls him closer.   
The kiss between them deepens, Hannibal finds his way underneath Will’s shirt and feels the skin there warm and soft against his hands. 

Will moans softly at the touch encouraging Hannibal to move his hands further up Will’s back stroking up and down pulling him even closer as he does. Will’s hands are still cupping Hannibal’s face, thumbs lightly stroking his skin. Will breaks away from their kiss and looks at Hannibal, “Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.” Will recites this as whisper, as a prayer and Hannibal takes each word as a gift.

“Is this our faery land?”

“We did survive the perilous sea.” Will kisses Hannibal again.

“Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?”

“My love you can sleep as long as you wish, I will find you both in your dreams and in your waking hours. Stay here with me.” Will kisses him again so tenderly it almost brings a tear to Hannibal’s eye.

“Where else would I go?” Hannibal smiles.

Will removes his hands from Hannibal’s face, steadying himself with one hand on the arm on the chair he reaches down to the bowl of fruit and picks up a piece and feeds it to Hannibal who greedily takes it licking Will’s finger as he places the fruit into Hannibal’s mouth. “Nowhere.” Will says as he watches Hannibal consume the fruit. 

Will repeats this action feeding Hannibal slices of mango, pineapple and other tropical fruit. Hannibal sits happily with his hands on Will’s back enjoying the flexing of the muscles every time he reaches down to retrieve something from the bowl. When all the fruit has gone Will kisses and licks the juice from Hannibal’s lips. Will removes himself from Hannibal’s lap and takes the bowl inside, Hannibal watches him as he goes.

**Author's Note:**

> The whole Ode to the Nightingale poem should anyone care:
> 
> Ode to a Nightingale Related Poem Content Details  
> BY JOHN KEATS  
> My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains   
>  My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,   
> Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains   
>  One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:   
> 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,   
>  But being too happy in thine happiness,—   
>  That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees   
>  In some melodious plot   
>  Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,   
>  Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 
> 
> O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been   
>  Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,   
> Tasting of Flora and the country green,   
>  Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!   
> O for a beaker full of the warm South,   
>  Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,   
>  With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,   
>  And purple-stained mouth;   
>  That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,   
>  And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 
> 
> Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget   
>  What thou among the leaves hast never known,   
> The weariness, the fever, and the fret   
>  Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;   
> Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,   
>  Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;   
>  Where but to think is to be full of sorrow   
>  And leaden-eyed despairs,   
>  Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,   
>  Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 
> 
> Away! away! for I will fly to thee,   
>  Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,   
> But on the viewless wings of Poesy,   
>  Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:   
> Already with thee! tender is the night,   
>  And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,   
>  Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;   
>  But here there is no light,   
>  Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown   
>  Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 
> 
> I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,   
>  Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,   
> But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet   
>  Wherewith the seasonable month endows   
> The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;   
>  White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;   
>  Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;   
>  And mid-May's eldest child,   
>  The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,   
>  The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 
> 
> Darkling I listen; and, for many a time   
>  I have been half in love with easeful Death,   
> Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,   
>  To take into the air my quiet breath;   
>  Now more than ever seems it rich to die,   
>  To cease upon the midnight with no pain,   
>  While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad   
>  In such an ecstasy!   
>  Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—   
>  To thy high requiem become a sod. 
> 
> Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!   
>  No hungry generations tread thee down;   
> The voice I hear this passing night was heard   
>  In ancient days by emperor and clown:   
> Perhaps the self-same song that found a path   
>  Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,   
>  She stood in tears amid the alien corn;   
>  The same that oft-times hath   
>  Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam   
>  Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 
> 
> Forlorn! the very word is like a bell   
>  To toll me back from thee to my sole self!   
> Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well   
>  As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.   
> Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades   
>  Past the near meadows, over the still stream,   
>  Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep   
>  In the next valley-glades:   
>  Was it a vision, or a waking dream?   
>  Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?


End file.
